“Through our reading we can travel to other times and other places, into other peoples minds and hearts and souls: it is a transcendent experience.”
― Louise DeSalvo, Writing As A Way Of Healing: How Telling Stories Transforms Our Lives
My grandmother taught me to read at a very young age. Tough, yet loving she showed me the ways of the words. Under her guidance the magic of books were mine to behold. At the impressionable age of five I already possessed the reading level of an eight years old. As a result reading became my favourite activity. Memories of hiding under tables to be able to steal a few extra minutes of my forbidden pleasure come to mind. Forbidden pleasure, as it took me away from helping around the house with chores and such.
Writing came soon after. Hiding diaries with tiny locks under my pillow, finding new places, so they’d stay undiscovered by preying eyes, kept me busy. I’d take cover under my bed and let my hand guide the pen onto the clean page. The voices in my head were free to express themselves on paper. There, I unburdened the weight of my young life.
Back then, anger, frustration, and sadness were not allowed to be shown in public. Not when you were a young child. So when it was all too much for me I’d come crawling under my bed angered and frustrated, filling the pages with the sharp edge of my private thoughts. The freedom of knowing no one was ever going to read them, allowed for the unloading of any worries I had.
The school playground was always a source of tension, for me. As the target of a group of young girls who took offence to my very being, I was unable to strike back. I would have gotten away with it had I not been so skinny. I remember coming home bruised, angry and emotionally scarred. My diary would be the keeper of all the pain I’d inflict those nasty girls, given any chance. Throughout the years that followed, writing kept me safe, providing me with the creative outlet I craved.
The rest of this post is coming on Wednesday…Stay tuned 🙂